


A Grunkle In Time

by Brokenpitchpipe



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sea Grunkles, Stan tries to fix things, Stangst, Teen Grunkles, Time Travel, Time Travel Drama, Time Wish (Gravity Falls), it goes about as well as you'd expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenpitchpipe/pseuds/Brokenpitchpipe
Summary: “Just to make sure we’re good,” Stan says, testing the weight of the orb. “Any rules for using this thing?"“IT’S PRETTY SELF EXPLANATORY,”the giant baby says.“JUST DON’T KILL YOURSELF AND YOU’LL BE FINE.”
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 36
Kudos: 153





	A Grunkle In Time

They have a good life.

Hell, it’s more than good, it’s the life they’ve always dreamed of. Ford’s never short of new anomalies to study, and with his brother at his side he’s never alone. Sure, when he’d imagined living a life of scientific discovery and wonder, he’d never imagined it with Stanley— but now that he’s here, Ford can’t imagine doing this without him. 

Well, he can. He remembers how he’d fared the first time without Stanley, and he’s not keen on doing it again. 

So, yes, he can safely surmise that the life he’s leading right now is, for all intents and purposes, the best possible outcome. 

Given the circumstances. 

They’re not young, and they’re not _getting_ younger, and apparently that’s something that troubles Ford a lot more than it troubles Stanley. Ford brought it up one evening over dinner. 

“It’s a wonder I’m able to punch anything at all,” he’d said mildly, nursing his wrist between bites of fish. “By all means, my arms should have atrophied by now.”

Stanley had snorted. “Ford, you’re not a hundred. Plus, if either of us should be breaking down, it should be _me.”_

This hadn’t been the intended effect. “Er,” Ford said, wondering how best to proceed. After all, any insult to his own age counted as an insult to Stanley’s. “I don’t mean—” 

“I know, I know.” Stan waved his apology away. “But I’m right, aren’t I? I mean, you spent thirty years doin’ god-knows-what to stay alive in the multi-whatsit-universe. I spent it on a couch, drinkin’ cola.” 

There were several inaccuracies in that statement, but Ford chose not to point them out. “Yes, well,” he said instead, “whenever your body decides to fail you, I fear I won’t be long behind.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Stan chortled, and stuck his fork into his fish with a flourish. “Cause wherever we go, we go together.” 

Ford still thinks about that night.

Stanley can’t just _not care_ about the thirty years of his life he’s never going to get back. Ford doesn’t exactly regret his own, having learned, met, and explored so many things, people, and places. But Stanley had given up everything— given up what little he had, anyway— and spent three decades teaching himself things his brain hadn’t planned on learning. All for Ford. 

Now they’re here, now things are wonderful, but every time Ford sees Stanley’s glasses, sees Stanley rub his back and wince, sees Stanley stare into the night sky like there’s an answer written in the stars that can’t be put to words—

Ford’s picked up the nasty habit of getting poetic. The point being, Stanley’s old, and so is he, and they don’t know how much time they have left, and Stanley’s okay with that, and Ford’s _not._

And he’s not sure what to do about it.

It’s not until much, much later that that changes. 

* * *

“What is this?” 

Stanley scratches his neck, looking over his shoulder. It’s such an obvious tell that Ford’s honestly not sure if he does it on purpose to hide whatever _real_ tells he has, or whether Stanley’s really this obvious. Given the fact that he’s a con artist who thrives on people underestimating him, it’s probably the former. 

“Just something I forgot I had,” Stanley says, still not looking him in the eyes. That part’s genuine, at least. Stanley’s remarkably good at facing his fears head-on, but sometimes he has trouble meeting Ford’s eyes. “I thought you might, uh, want it.” 

Ford picks up the book. It’s hand-bound, and judging by the faint traces of glitter— 

“Did the kids make this?”

Stanley shrugs. “Kinda. I asked ‘em to help me put it together. Had all the pages, I just needed to put ‘em in one place.”

The cover’s blank, and Ford still doesn’t understand. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Stanley mutters. He grabs the book straight out of Ford’s hands and opens it to a page at random. 

The pages are bleach-white and nothing like the yellowish faded parchment Ford remembers, but the words are the same. 

“Stanley,” he says weakly, “is this…” 

“Yeah.” Stanley nods. “I… got a little paranoid at the end, there.” 

Ford sorts. “Well, I can’t exactly fault you for that.” He flips through the pages, rereading his own notes from years ago, decades ago. He’d made his peace with never seeing this again, never seeing any of his journals again, but it gives him a certain sort of feeling to hold this in his hands again. 

“Do you,” Stanley says quietly, snapping Ford out of his poetic musings. “Do you like it?” 

“Oh, Stanley,” Ford sighs. “Yes. _Thank you.”_

Stanley hugs him. Ford drops the copy of his journal onto the table to hug his brother back. Journals can wait, hugs can’t always do the same. 

* * *

Hours later he reads it by the oil lantern— and _yes,_ he’s aware of those fancy LED bulbs that give a warm light and conserve electricity and whatnot, but once you spend three decades traversing the multiverse, you learn that sometimes simple tools are better. More reliable, at least. Stanley agrees, but only because he hates smartphones and refuses to learn how they work. And after thirty years of leaning things he can’t possibly have wanted to learn, Ford doesn’t push him. 

Besides, he kind of hates smartphones too.

He turns to the last page he remembers writing, and reminisces about that awful, scared man he’d been so long ago. Years ago the thought of his younger self had sent him to tears, but now he’s stable enough to look back and feel a faint fondness for who he’d used to be. 

The last category 10 monster, a hunched-over-zombie, stares at him. There’s a smear on the top right corner that Ford doesn’t remember. He smiles. A simple photocopy isn’t enough to recreate the invisible ink, but that’s quite all right.

There’s still a handful of pages left, and Ford frowns. And then he remembers— of course, Dipper had mentioned his scribblings, hadn’t he? 

Excited now, Ford flips to the next page and begins to read. He makes a mental note to send a letter to the kids, thanking Mabel for her work and praising Dipper for his scientific prowess. It’s entirely possible that their summer together will put the poor boy off of science for a while, possibly for life. But it’s also possible that he’ll grow up to be a scientist even greater than Ford. Whatever he does, Ford’s sure he’ll be proud. 

He muses over Dipper’s notes for a while, Stanley’s snores jolting him back to consciousness every time he comes close to losing it. He gets to the last page and, yawning, is about to go to bed, when—

He blinks, rereading the second paragraph. And then he rereads it again. And then he picks the book up with slightly trembling hands and reads it a third time. 

Underneath the adventure's account, Dipper had drawn a detailed picture, detailed enough that Ford can actually recognize the schematics, the rubidium core, the positronic ion calibrator, and the tantalum casing. Why on earth it had been designed as a tape measure he doesn’t understand, but everything else looks pretty straightforward. 

He’s not planning on simply traveling back in time, God no. The risk alone wouldn’t be worth whatever he’d hope to accomplish, and besides, he _knows_ his younger self. Even a message from his future wouldn’t stop him. Even a message, a beg, a plea from his best friend hadn’t stopped him. 

No, Ford’s past self won't change. Not until he spends thirty years away. So it’s up to Ford himself. He reads through Dipper’s account six more times before writing up a plan of his own: Reverse-engineer a 'time-tape.' Travel around knocking jars off of shelves, tripping people up, and saying just enough wrong things at the wrong time to get in trouble. Invoke a Globnar challenge. Win.

Simple enough, as plans go.

Ford tucks his plan into his coat, snaps the book shut, and blows out his lantern. There’s much to do. 

* * *

It’s kind of funny. Stan’s never been one for early mornings, not as a kid, not as a teenager, and not even as a homeless grifter on the road. He’d opened the shack at noon every day, and cited the reason because who wanted to see a tourist trap at _eight in the morning?_

But now he’s always the first to rise. Ford stays up so damn late every night, because he’s _not tired, Stanley, honestly, if you’d rather I stay awake staring at the wall then I will lie awake staring at the wall, but I doubt it will change the time at which I fall asleep, and in the interim I will have wasted time that could have been put to good use—_ and blah blah _blah,_ Stan knows the truth. The idiot’s so addicted to work that it keeps him up, and he works better when Stan’s not there to bug him. So Stan turns in early these days, which is fine because steering a boat is a lot more work than he’d thought, and so is punching monsters, and when they settle down for the evening Stan’s always more than ready to hop onto the top bunk and pass out. 

Which means he wakes up, like, _butt_ early. 

Seriously, if you told seventeen-year-old Stan that one day he’d willingly wake up before the sun, he’d never have believed it. Or maybe he would have, and he’d have been scared. Or both. 

But he doesn’t mind it now. He gets to listen to Ford sleep, which is only a little weird, but they’re brothers so it’s not that weird. And also they’ve both almost died a _lot,_ so the comfort of hearing Ford’s breathing, Stan thinks, is pretty justified. 

This morning in particular Stan’s sleeping in. Not really sleeping, but it counts as rest if he’s not moving his body a whole lot. 

They’re in a safe harbor, which is pretty rare, and he likes the occasional pockets of normalcy they find in their ongoing adventures. From the dock he can hear the faint sounds of people heading to and from their boats, folks milling about the town, and seagulls shouting fuck-all. He thinks he might hear a coast guard crew walking around, which kind of puts him on edge, but Ford’s good with that kinda stuff and Stan’s been trying not to worry about the law as much these days. It’s easy when they’re out at sea, no one asks to see your fishing license if you’re punching a thirty-foot sea monster in the face. 

Ford mumbles something in his sleep. Stan listens, but that’s the end of it. He relaxes again. Ford tends to get talky when he gets nightmares, which is really useful. Not that Stan’s glad his brother has nightmares strong enough to make him talk in his sleep, but it’s a lot easier to comfort him when Ford gives him clear-cut words to work with.

But this isn’t a nightmare. The idiot’s probably just tired himself out again. He’d actually gone into town for once, saying there was something important he had to check. It had been strange; he’d hugged Stanley before leaving, which he usually only does when they’re about to, yknow, die. He hadn’t looked scared, though, so Stan’s pretty sure he hadn’t just marched into certain doom— or, as Ford would call it, _probable doom._ But he’d just hugged Stan, said he’d be back in a few minutes, and run off with that book under his arm. Stan had gotten supplies for the ship, talked to the kids for a few hours using a pay phone by the general store, and wandered around the town for the rest of the day. By the time he’d made it back to the ship, Ford was hunched over the table, a manic glint in his eye, scribbling furiously on a slip of paper with the photocopied journal splayed out in front of him.

Stan had given him the thing more as a keepsake than anything else. He’d thought they could hang it up on the wall somewhere or something, though he doesn’t know how they’d hang a book. Maybe open it and frame it on a cool-looking page? They do that in museums, right? Stan hasn’t stepped in a museum in years, though, so maybe they don’t do that anymore. Anyway, he’d hoped they could look through the thing maybe once or twice, then put it somewhere where they could see it and think of the kids, and the crazy summer they’d all survived that had brought them all together.

But Ford had quickly turned from charmed to obsessed, and as much as Stan had loved seeing his brother smile, now he’s starting to get annoyed. Ford stays up reading the stupid thing almost every night, and whenever Stan asks, he just gives a little half-smile and says he’s _just reliving some old memories, Stanley, I’m feeling nostalgic._

And, okay. Stan’s never had a good relationship with nostalgia, and Ford’s gotta know that. Reliving old happy memories has only ever brought anger and pain, at least for Stan. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know if Ford feels any differently. They’ve lived pretty similar lives: a happy but troubled childhood, a rough ten years, a _really_ rough thirty years, and now… this.

Ford mumbles something again and shifts. The boat moves a little, small enough that even Ford turning his weight is enough to rock it.

Stan’s annoyance melts. Ford’s probably lapsing into regrets again.

Well, if there’s anything Stan’s good at, it’s dealing with _that_ shit. That settles it. Tonight he’ll tell Ford to close the book and, fuck, he doesn’t know, play a hand of cards? He’ll think of something. Anything but reliving nasty old memories. 

The boat rocks again. Stan rubs his eyes, squinting them open for the first time today. If Ford’s tossing and turning, maybe this is a smaller, less awful nightmare? He blinks a few times, reaches up for his glasses— he keeps them in a little net hammock over his bed— and puts them on— 

And has to try very, very hard not to scream. 

Because there’s a giant floating baby, like, _inches_ away from his face. 

_“STANFORD PINES,”_ the giant baby says. The boat trembles. Stan hears Ford mumble in his sleep and turn over. When he’s this exhausted, even a slap to the face won’t wake him up. Or a giant floating baby, apparently.

“Uh,” Stan says. “Yeah, uh, what’s— uh—” 

_“AS PROMISED AND FAIRLY WON, HERE IS YOUR TIME WISH.”_ The giant baby holds out a hand. It looks… gross. Luckily, it starts to glow, and a golden orb with a weird-looking symbol on it floats above his palm. Which means Stan doesn’t have to touch him. Hopefully. 

“Uh,” he says again. This probably isn’t the best time to say he doesn’t know what’s going on, or what this is, or why there’s a _giant floating baby_ in front of him. The golden orb looks pretty important, and he can just see it now, Ford waking up and asking _so, what did you do with the golden orb? It’s incredibly important and I hope you put it somewhere safe, and if you didn’t I’m going to drop you off at port and sail away and never speak to you again._

He’s Ford, so he’d probably say it with a hundred more fancy adjectives and whatever, but that’s the general gist. 

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. I’ll just, uh, take that.” He grabs the orb. It’s warm. 

_“WHAT IS YOUR TIME WISH?”_

Stan clears his throat. “Just to make sure we’re good,” he says carefully, testing the weight of the orb in his hands, “any rules for using this thing? Like, gimme an example of a good Time Wish.”

It looks like this is a one-time offer, with pretty much no room for delay. Which would be fine, if Stan knew what was going on. But he doesn’t, which is a problem. Still, there are ways of getting people to explain things without admitting that you don’t know what those things are in the first place. A Time Wish will be no exception, even though it seems pretty self-explanatory. 

_“IT’S PRETTY SELF EXPLANATORY,”_ the giant baby says. _“JUST DON’T KILL YOURSELF AND YOU’LL BE FINE.”_

Right. Significantly less information than Stan was hoping for. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I get _that_ part. But I mean, what are the limits of this thing?” 

_“IT’S—”_ The giant baby pinches its nose. _“IT’S A TIME WISH. YOU MAY GO ANYWHERE IN TIME."_ At Stan's blank expression, the baby sighs. _"CHANGE THE PAST OR THE FUTURE. GO LIVE WITH DINOSAURS. IT DOESN’T MATTER. THE TIME POLICE CAN’T ARREST YOU.”_

Huh. So there’s Time Police. Cool. “So, like, what, you want me to go find myself as a baby and drop twenty bucks in my college fund?” That’s a joke, obviously. They never had college funds. 

_“SURE,”_ the giant baby says. _“IS THAT YOUR WISH?”_

“Wh- no, no,” Stan says hurriedly, “no, I don’t wanna see myself as a baby, geez.” 

_“RUDE.”_

“Sorry,” Stan mutters. 

_"YOU COULD TAKE HIS PLACE,"_ the baby says. _"IF YOU WANT TO BE A BABY AGAIN. BABIES ARE COOL."_ Stan wrinkles his nose.

Ford huffs out a breath, like he’s annoyed at them for making noise even in his sleep, and Stan looks down. Ford’s tucked in a little ball, still wrapped up in his dumb trenchcoat, his glasses lying on the bed beside his face. If he’s not careful, one of these days they’re gonna break. And tucked under his arm is the book. 

Stan’s throat suddenly gets tight. 

“So,” he says, “I could go anywhere with this thing, right?” he holds the orb up. 

_“YES,”_ the baby says. _“DO YOU WANT ME TO WRITE IT DOWN FOR YOU?”_

“No,” Stan says. He has a sudden, stupid plan. And that’s always been his MO. It’s impulsive, it’s pretty much guaranteed to fail, and he suddenly knows that he has to follow it through no matter what. “I know what I wanna do.” 

* * *

He wakes up on the top bunk of his childhood bed, and he knows in an instant where he is because it smells like it used to, there’s a dent in the wall where he punched it once when he was fifteen, and his head hits the ceiling the moment he sits up. 

He checks his watch, and quickly realizes that his seventeen year old self didn’t have a watch. So instead he hops off the top bunk— damn, his legs are so much more limber now— and checks the clock on Ford’s bedside table. 

It’s six in the morning. 

Ford snores softly beside him, and Stan has to kind of just stand there for a moment and watch him. He’s so young, and yet… His glasses are lying askew over his face, and they’ll break one morning when he sleeps on them wrong and bends the nose-piece. He’s wearing his regular clothes, shoes and all, like he’d been up all night working and only came to bed for a second before passing out— which is probably what happened. And he’s got a book tucked under his arm.

Without thinking, Stan reaches for it. Ford’s limp noodle arms barely resist, and Stan flips through the pages, searching for a clue as to what Ford’s up to these days. It’s a calculus textbook. Stan frowns. Ford’s past calculus by now, surely? He’s got a perpetual motion thingamajig, right? Calculus is baby stuff compared to that.

Stan glances down at the book. He’s opened it to a two-page spread on the six basic hyperbolic functions, which Stan can recite from memory now without having to turn the book upside-down to find the answer. 

Except in this time, that’s not true. 

He shuts the book carefully and goes to put it back, and Ford takes it. 

“Gah—” he stumbles back, almost running into the table. “Ford— I didn’t know you were awake.” 

“That’s apparent,” Ford mutters, adjusting his glasses. He blinks sleep out of his eyes and peers down at the book. “What were you doing with my textbook?” 

“Just,” Stan says. “Yknow.”

Ford scowls. “You got up earlier than me for once in your life and you decided to take a gander through my calculus book?”

“What did you want me to do, cook you breakfast?” Stan snorts. Ford smiles a little at that, though he still looks a little suspicious. “Cmon,” he says. “Speakin’ of breakfast, let’s get some eggs before Ma gets up.” 

“Good idea.” Ford rolls his shoulder, and frowns when it doesn’t pop.

Stan grins and rolls his own, relishing in the satisfying _crackle_ it makes when his ligaments pop back into place. “Jealous?” 

“A bit,” Ford admits, getting up and brushing himself off. It’s a little ironic, Stan gets into fights and uses his muscles and sweats up a storm, so he changes his shirts every morning, but Ford will walk around in the same clothes for three days straight and no one bats an eye. 

The memories slip into place one by one, and Stan bites his lip hard to keep from tearing up. 

“Cmon,” he says again, holding his hand out. Ford takes it, six fingers curling around Stan’s five. 

* * *

Stan doesn’t remember a whole lot about this day, just the important parts. So until they get called to the principal’s office together, he’s flying a little blind. He and Ford are in different math classes, which is kind of a shame because Stan would _love_ to see Ford’s face when he answers three questions right in a row. They’re not even that hard, he’s stuck down in basic algebra where the hardest thing they have to do is divide by four every once in a while. 

Then again, Ford might start to get worried, so maybe it’s a good thing they’re separated. 

A girl comes up to Stan during lunch and he feels godawful for not knowing her name, but he manages to play the whole thing off without having to bring that fact up and she walks away only a little bit grumpy because he wouldn’t kiss her, and he can’t exactly explain the fact that he’s a gross old man in a seventeen year old kid’s body, which is, like, _really weird_ when he puts it that way but in context it’s not totally weird, just a little weird—

Okay, so Stan might be getting a little stressed out. Because he'd had a plan, sure, but he didn’t have a _plan._ The most he’s got is to do nothing tonight instead of sneaking into the gym and ruining his brother’s project, but other than that he’s flying pretty blind. What’s he gonna do then? Suddenly pick his grades up and go to college? Hell no, and not because he’d die before he let someone call him a nerd. 

He’s doing this for Ford, first and foremost, and beyond that he has no idea what to do. At first he'd thought, once he did this, he’d be zapped back into the present or whatever. But now he realizes that might not happen. He’s already changed some stuff already and they didn’t count that as his Time Wish. And, like, sure, he specified that he wanted to change tonight, but they gave him the whole day. There’s still time to get sucked back into the future, he tells himself. He’s just gotta stay hopeful.

Though if Ford gets to go to his nerd school— no, _when_ Ford gets to go to his nerd school— Stan’s gonna follow him. He’ll find work somewhere, he might not even tell Ford. But if the day comes when it’s all too much and he’s gotta tell someone, Ford’s the only one who’ll ever believe him. 

He has to wait until seventh period for the stupid announcement to come. When it does, his heart turns all the way over and he forgets how to breathe for a minute. It’s not happening _right now_ but it’s happening soon, and he’s gotta be ready. 

He ignores the stares as he picks his stuff up and heads over to the office. He knows they’re gonna kick him right out as soon as he reaches the door, which is stupid becuase they said _Pines Twins to the principal’s office,_ not _Stanford Pines,_ but they’ve never been able to tell him and Ford apart and they’re not gonna start now. 

He makes it to the 400 hallway when Ford catches up with him, panting and out of breath. Stan stops short, because he doesn’t quite remember this happening. Ford had met him before they got to the office, he’s pretty sure, but they’d been pretty casual about it. He doesn’t remember Ford running, or panting, or hunching over his legs and putting a finger up to make Stan wait. It’s probably one of those butterfly effect things. Because Stan had picked up Ford’s book this morning, which he hadn’t originally done, now Ford’s racing to meet him. 

“Sorry,” Ford gasps after a while, standing back up and adjusting his glasses. “I— tried to run.”

“Gathered that,” Stan says, folding his arms. “What’d you do, huh? I thought they were busting me for putting gum on Mr. Whitecotton’s chair.” A complete lie, but he’s good at lies on the fly by now and Ford doesn’t know that, so he won’t be watching for it. 

Stan avoids his eyes. 

Ford laughs. It’s a wheezy laugh, he’s still out of breath, but it’s also completely out of place and just really _weird._ Stan doesn’t remember Ford laughing either. “Sorry,” Ford says. “I thought I could run further than this. Clearly I was mistaken.” 

Stan snorts. “Yeah, I’d love to watch you try out for track. If you didn’t trip over your own feet you’d run outta steam three feet in and have to siddown for a water break.” 

Ford laughs again, and wipes his eyes under his glasses. He doesn’t meet Stan’s eyes either. “Listen,” he says at last, once he’s got his breath under control. “Ms. Tillett told me why we’ve been called. They want to talk to me about,” and he breaks off suddenly, staring into the middle distance. “School,” he says at last. “Things.” He clears his throat. “Dreadfully boring stuff for you, Stanley, I’m sure.”

Stan stares. 

“Er,” Ford continues. “So, I think it would be best if you sat this one out. You have a reason to skip class now, isn’t that wonderful?” He claps Stan on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Stan says slowly. “I guess.” 

“Here,” Ford says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a handful of coins. Stan doesn’t remember much about how they got money back in the day, but he does remember that Ford usually didn’t have much. “Take this and buy us something,” he says, pressing the coins into Stan’s hand. “I’ll meet you on the beach later, all right?”

Stan wants to cry. Because as much as he’d looked after Ford, Ford had looked after him too. Stan just never remembered. Or never cared. All he’d ever thought about, all those years, was how he’d failed to protect his brother from whatever the hell he’d found out in the Oregon wilderness, how he’d failed to keep him safe, and how he was failing, failing, failing to bring him back. 

He’d never thought about how he’d missed Ford looking out for him, too.

“Stanley?” Ford says carefully, and Stan almost jumps. He looks at Ford through his filthy glasses, realizes he’s not wearing glasses because he’s seventeen right now, and wipes his eyes to clear them. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah,” he says hastily. “I’m fine, yeah. I’ll meet you on the swings, Sixer.” 

The term comes so easily, and Stan has to resist the urge to apologize. Ford hates it these days, for obvious reasons, and even though Stan wants to argue that it was their term first, it belongs to them and it had never belonged to that stupid dream-demon-whatever, it’s _theirs,_ the damage is done. That word will always make Ford shiver, and Stan works day and night to make sure it never falls from his lips. 

Ford’s mouth goes very tight. It’s just for an instant, and then it’s gone and he’s smiling at Stan again. “See you there,” he says, and then pauses. “Lee,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Stan cuffs the back of his head and jogs off, wondering how much he can buy with seventy-five cents nowadays. Not a whole lot, but probably enough for them both. He stuffs it into his pocket, heading for the doors. 

* * *

Seventy-five cents ends up getting them a handful of candies. Bottlecaps, Pop Rocks, and some banana flavored Jelly Beans, to be specific— though he’d had to go easy on the Jelly Beans, since they were a little expensive.

Ford meets him at the swings as promised, looking thoughtful and worried. This, too, is different. Stan remembers how excited his brother had been at the prospect of West Coast Tech, and how he’d forgotten everything but that goal in the few minutes since learning about it. 

Stan curls his fingers against his chest. He knows, now, he understands. He’s forgiven Ford, and Ford’s forgiven him. 

It’s still gonna hurt like a bitch, though.

“Hey,” Ford says, taking a seat on the swing beside him. “No peanuts?” he asks, as soon as he sees the spread of candy Stan’s got.

“Nah, I lost my taste for ‘em,” Stan says, shrugging. Ford doesn’t reply, so he grabs the bag of banana Jelly Beans and tosses it over. “Here. You like banana stuff, right?” 

“Er, yes,” Ford says, taking the bag. He picks up a single Jelly Bean and peers at it like it’s some anomaly he’s just discovered. 

Oh. That hurts like a bitch, too.

Stan has to close his eyes for a second. Impulsive or not, this is a permanent decision. No more _Stan O’ War II._ No more punching sea monsters in the arctic wastes. No more finding mysterious maps and following clues and meeting merpeople and fighting sirens and helping Ford into bed and turning the lantern off and climbing into his bunk with difficulty because of his old joints and waking up at six every morning and listening to the seagulls or the seals or the sea monsters until Ford wakes up and making breakfast and calling the kids and trying to figure out how the tablet works and watching Ford yell in frustration about how he’d _reverse engineered a radion explosive using nothing but the skin of my teeth and a handful of uranium but I can’t figure out how to use this blasted thing—_

“Stanley?” 

It’s worth it. It’s going to be worth it. They’re going to have thirty years they’d never have had together. They’re going to have each other. Ford’s going to get what he deserves, for once in his stupid, stuck-up nerd life. 

“Stanley!”

Stan drops the Bottlecaps straight into the sand. He has to bend down to get them, which is easier than it used to be. He sits back up and puts them in his lap, then leans over so he can wipe his eyes under the pretense of brushing sand off of his candy. 

“Stanley, what’s upset you?” 

“Nothin’,” he says quickly, too quickly. Shit. “Just,” he says, and to hell with it. They’re gonna have this conversation no matter what, who cares if he’s the one who starts it? “Just thinking about stuff, lately,” he says, and sits up once his eyes are dry. 

“Oh?” Ford blinks.

“Yeah.” Stan shrugs. “I mean, you’re… cmon, Ford, I know what they were talking about in there. That was college talk, wasn’t it?” 

Ford hugs himself. “Yes.”

“So, what, they offer you up to a fancy one?” 

Ford doesn’t look at him. “Sort of. But—” 

“But nothing,” Stan interrupts. “That’s that.” 

“Wh—” Ford sputters indignantly. “It’s a great deal more complicated than that, Stanley.” 

“Not really.” Stan raises an eyebrow. What he really, really wants to say is a long, complicated string of thoughts, only half of which Ford’s gonna understand anyway, so he just takes a breath and says something else instead. “You’re not gonna leave me behind, are you?”

Because that’s what his seventeen year old self had cared about most, even if he hadn’t been willing to admit it at the time. And that’s what Ford’s gonna expect. So even if he knows Ford’s expecting to pack up and move across the world and leave Stan in the dust, even though he’s sort of okay with that now, he still has to act like he isn’t. 

It’s a little too easy. 

“Stanley,” Ford says gently. 

“No, just,” Stan says, cutting him off. “Just— do you really need that dumb college to tell you you’re smart?”

“Stanley,” Ford says, less gently. 

“I’m serious!” Stan throws up his hands. _“Cmon,_ Ford, what about the adventure we always talked about? Don’t you want that?” 

Ford is quiet. Stan doesn’t remember Ford being quiet, but this isn’t the exact argument they had so long ago, so that’s fine. He knows the answer anyway. They didn’t walk away from this angry at each other, that doesn’t come until later. So he sighs. 

“Just think about it, all right?” he says, abandoning the swing. “Yknow. In case the college thing doesn't work out. As an afterthought.” 

And he walks away then, leaving Ford on the swing. 

* * *

And he doesn’t see Ford punch his own leg in self-hatred, doesn’t hear Ford cursing himself out in every language on Earth, and a few besides that. 

* * *

Ford catches up with him an hour later, behind the parking lot at Gino’s. It’s a place he half-remembers, an old smoking spot. He hasn’t smoked in ages, of course, but there’s a pack in his pocket and an itch for the nicotine in his blood, so he’s halfway through his second smoke when Ford, panting again, jogs to meet him. 

“Stanley, get that thing out of your mouth,” he scolds, but any chance of intimidation he might have had is ruined by the fact that he’s wheezing and bent over double.

“Seriously, you gonna try out for track?” Stan says, but takes the cigarette out anyway. They taste worse than he remembers. He drops it to the ground and grinds it to dust under his heel. “What do you want?” 

He doesn’t remember this, either. But he didn’t come here last time. He’d gone to the house and had to listen to his folks yak on and on and on about Ford and his college career, and how he was gonna move a hundred thousand miles away and they’d be out of their dump house at last. Seeing his father hadn’t been on the list of stuff to do back in this time, so Stan had chosen to light up in the Gino’s parking lot instead.

“I just wanted to talk,” Ford says, leaning on the chain-link fence for support. “That’s all. I—” He clears his throat. “I don’t know if mom and dad told you, but my project—” 

“It’s bein’ judged by the college people, yeah, yeah,” Stan says, waving his hand dismissively. “Whatever, they’ll love it.” 

“That’s not—” Ford pinches his nose. “I just wanted to tell you to— well, to tell you not to— I mean—” he stammers, suddenly extremely interested in the gravel at their feet. It’s horribly lit by the street-lamps. Stan kicks it, and a few pebbles land on Ford’s shoe. 

“Spit it out, Sixer,” he says. Ford’s mouth does that small tight thing again. 

“Just— stay away from the gymnasium tonight,” Ford says. 

Time kind of slows down, then. 

And it’s different from when time had been dead and stopped and done weird stuff because of that stupid dream demon, but it feels really, really similar and suddenly Stan wants to sit down. 

He locks his knees. “Excuse me,” he says. 

Ford’s eyes widen. “I just,” he says, voice a little high. “I just, I mean, I don’t know what you were planning to do tonight, but—” 

Stan closes his eyes. He’s on the _Stan O’ War II._ Ford’s fast asleep on the bottom bunk. They’re happy together. They’re sailing the world together. Ford’s sorry, Ford forgives him. Stan’s sorry. Stan forgives him. Ford trusts him. Eventually.

It’s not enough. 

Ford, right now, doesn’t trust him. All this time, he’d never trusted Stan. He’d anticipated sabotage, he’d _expected_ Stan to try to stop his brother from chasing his dreams. This explains everything, this explains why he’d been so quick to accuse, and so quick to step back once their father had taken charge and kicked Stan out.

“Whatever,” he spits. He grabs his cigarette from the ground; there’s enough of it left. He lights it. 

“Stanley, would you just—” Ford groans in frustration. “This isn’t about me.” 

“Who said it was?” 

“I’m trying to— protect you.” 

“From _what?”_ Stan growls. “From what, Ford? From being too dumb to catch the eye of some hoity-toity college bigwigs? Guess what, dumb-dumb, I already knew that. And I don’t need to hear it from you, too.” He folds his arms. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to.” 

“Stanley,” Ford says weakly. “I didn’t mean…” 

Stan sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” He takes a drag of his dirt-covered cigarette and blows the smoke away from Ford. “I’m gonna stay out here a little longer. Don’t wanna see dad right now.” 

Ford says nothing. 

“Jus’ go home, Sixer,” Stan mutters. “I’m not gonna do anything to your project.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Stan watches Ford cycle through a lot of different facial expressions. He pretends not to notice as Ford gives off all the telltale signs of wanting to say something, thinking better of it, deciding to speak anyway, and then changing his mind again.

Stan’s heart softens. 

Ford’s just scared. He has a brother who punches before thinking— or so he thinks— and he’s got a lot riding on tomorrow. Maybe he’s realized what it means to Stan that he’s thinking of moving away, and maybe he’s guilty but doesn’t want to admit it. Maybe he wants to explain all of this without hurting Stan more than he already has. 

And maybe Stan can give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Hey,” he says, and Ford jumps, looking at him. “You’re gonna do great tomorrow.” 

Ford rubs his neck. “Thanks.” He bites his lip. 

All right, time for the big guns. Stan holds his hand up. “High six,” he says, more of a statement than a question. Ford’s eyes immediately water, and he ignores Stan’s hand in favor of hugging him. 

Stan doesn’t remember a lot of hugging from this time. Though maybe, he thinks, as he wraps his arms around his brother in turn and squeezes tight, maybe that was more because of him than anything else. 

* * *

He goes to see the project anyway. 

It feels like he’s visiting his dad’s grave again. The whole gymnasium is dark and abandoned, with nothing but tables from end to end, science projects lying in wait for tomorrow morning. He walks along them, searching the name plates until he reaches the _P_ aisle. 

The whole place kind of gives him the creeps. It’s crazy to think that this room and everything in it was witness to the choice, the accident that had taken away forty years of happiness for them both.

And yeah, sure, maybe the safest thing to do would be to head home and leave this place alone, maybe it’s a dumb idea to be here, and maybe he’s kind of risking everything by showing up, but to hell with it, he’s already here, and he’s morbidly curious to see it again after all this time. He’s remembered this moment for years, for decades.

Ford’s project is kind of anticlimactic, when he finds it. There’s a big white sheet draped over the thing, and logically Stan knows that there’s pretty much zero risk of damaging it if he moves the sheet, since Ford’s gonna do that tomorrow anyway, but he still doesn’t wanna touch it. 

Instead he just looks at it, not knowing how to feel. 

In a way he hates it. He spent ten long years hating it. He’d blamed this thing for ruining his life, for ruining his relationship with Ford, for ruining everything. And then, later, he’d started to blame himself instead. He doesn’t know when that had started, probably after he’d lost Ford, but it had taken a long time. 

And now he looks at it, and maybe once he’d dreamed about punching this thing to bits, but not anymore. Now, this is going to be the ticket to their futures. 

He laughs, then, because damn, he really does sound like their father, doesn’t he?

“Stanley!” 

Ford, not out of breath this time, stands at the end of the line of tables. He hadn’t run here. He’d been waiting.

“Unbelievable,” Stan breathes. “You really don’t trust me.” 

“You’re _here_ when I told you _not to be,”_ Ford thunders. “I hope you can forgive me for my suspicions when they turn out to be _correct.”_

“Oh, shut it, Sixer, you—” 

“Stop calling me that, Stanley—” 

“Or what, what are you gonna do, punch—” 

But the next word doesn’t come out, because Ford’s fist sinks into his gut in just the right place to wind him, and when the hell had Ford learned how to aim a punch? Stan must have taught him, or tried to teach him, or— 

“I can’t believe you!” Ford cries, pulling his fist back again. “After everything, after _everything—_ you’re here, trying to sabotage me.”

“I wasn’t gonna—” Stan catches Ford’s fist this time, “— sabotage your stupid project, you dumb—” 

“Don’t call me dumb, just because you hate it—” Ford grunts as Stan knees him, but turns just in time for Stan’s knee to collide with his thigh instead of his groin. “What were you doing here if not to destroy my project?” 

“I was just _looking_ at it,” Stan shouts. “I know that’s so unbelievable that your own brother would wanna look at your project and make sure everything was fine—” 

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Ford growls, and he takes Stan’s arm and twists it behind his back, and that’s so completely unexpected that Stan’s legs lose their ground and he slips to the ground with a grunt, head hitting the carpet floor hard. He struggles, but despite his strength the angle’s wrong, and Ford’s got him. 

“I can’t believe it,” Ford’s muttering again. “I can’t believe it. I thought we were past this, I thought— I can’t believe I _believed you,_ after all this time—”

And he’s making _no_ sense at all but that doesn’t matter because he’s distracted, and Stan uses that to his advantage and tugs hard, throwing him off balance. Ford falls like a sack of potatoes, and Stan has to tug him quickly to keep his head from colliding with the most-likely-very-made-of-metal project standing on the table. Ford's side hits the table hard, and the cheap thing collapses, taking Ford’s project with it. The white sheet falls off in the process, landing a few feet away. 

They crumple to the ground in a heap, Ford on top of Stan, a table full of projects lying ruined on the floor beside them. Stan has to catch his breath for a second; Ford’s punch really had winded him. 

“No,” Ford says quietly, looking at the wreckage.

Stan joins him in a second, getting to his feet. “Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, _shit.”_

Ford rounds on him immediately. “Why are _you_ upset about this?” he demands. “You should be jumping for joy.”

Stan tugs at his hair in frustration. “I _told_ you, you _mook,_ I didn’t come here to break your stupid project. I just came here to, I dunno, reminisce? Look, it wasn’t smart, but I’ve never been smart so you can’t fault me for that. This— was just—” 

“An accident?” Ford guesses, and then snorts. “Of course it was. Just like last time.” 

“Excuse,” Stan says, and then stops. 

Ford starts excavating his project, picking up stray pieces scattered across the carpet. The thing looks unsalvageable, but Stan knows with enough time Ford could get it up and running again. 

“Ford,” he says slowly. 

“Stanley,” Ford says icily.

“Ford,” Stan says again, taking a step forward. 

“Don’t touch me, Stanley,” Ford snaps. 

“Ford,” Stan says, and takes a breath. “It’s me.”

“I know it’s you, Stanley, you don’t have to—” 

But Stan grabs his arm, looks him in the eyes. “It’s _me,_ Ford.”

Ford stares at him. And then his eyes widen. _“Stanley?”_ He’s on his feet immediately, panic and confusion fueling him instead of rage. “But— how did you—" He looks around, as if he's expecting another time traveler to pop out of the gymnasium floor. When he comes up empty, he goggles at Stan again. "How are you _here?”_

“Listen, I dunno,” Stan says honestly, his hands up in defense. “I woke up and there was this giant baby—”

“You _saw_ Time Baby?” 

“— and you were asleep, and he said my name and—” He breaks off, suddenly remembering. “Oh, no.” 

“What?”

“He said _your_ name,” Stan realizes. “Crap, Ford, I… so this was supposed to be for _you.”_

“Well, you certainly didn’t win Globnar,” Ford says importantly.

“Oh my god, will you get your head outta your ass,” Stan grumbles. “We don't have time for this. Hurry up, we gotta fix this.” 

“What?” 

“Your project, stupid,” Stan snaps. “Cmon, let’s get the table set up again.” He bends under the table and props the leg up, making it stand upright again. 

Ford blinks. “Stanley,” he says slowly. “What did you come back here to do?” 

Stan snorts. “Well, I was _tryin’_ to keep this from happening,” he says, gesturing at the metal wreckage at their feet. “Guess I kinda screwed that up, though.” 

Ford frowns. “Then— why did you come here in the first place? Why didn’t you stay away?” 

Stan shrugs. “You told me not to,” he says. “And, I dunno.” 

“Ah,” Ford says. “That does make sense.” 

He hefts the perpetual motion machine onto the table with difficulty, apparently used to having the muscles of a sixty-something old man who fights monsters every other day. Stan helps him set it on the table and they look at it. Stan flicks it, and a little puff of smoke poots out from the top. 

“Whaddaya think?” Stan asks, turning to Ford. “Doable?” 

“Not by tomorrow morning,” Ford says softly. “But that hardly matters."

“What do you mean, it hardly— Ford, this is the entire reason—” He blinks. “Hold on, yeah, why’re _you_ here?” 

Ford bites his lip. “I was hoping you’d forgotten to ask.” 

“Not a chance.” Stan folds his arms. “Start talkin’. I get why I’d come here, but why’re you here? Why didn’t you, I dunno, go back to…” He doesn’t know what to call it. “That night?” 

Ford sighs. “Well,” he says, “because… we don’t know what might have happened. You were angry and ready to fight— for good reason,” he adds, quickly. “For all we know, I could have fallen into that portal regardless of what I said. Or you might have fallen in my place. I didn’t want to risk it.” 

“No,” Stan says, pinching his nose. “Sorry, Ford, but that’s a load of bull. You know me now, you knew what kinda place I was in. You coulda stopped it all right then and there. So why’d you come _here?_ What, you wanted to go to that fancy school that badly?”

Ford sighs again. “I,” he says, holding his arms. “I wanted to change things.” He looks at Stan. “I was going to turn them down, once they offered me a scholarship.” 

Stan stares. “What?” 

“Stanley, I’m perfectly happy as I am now, credentials or not. I didn’t need degrees to start my investigations in Gravity Falls, and I didn’t need them to travel the world with you. I was a fool to think that a slip of paper was more important than my family, and I…” He sighs. “I don’t know how best to articulate this. I didn’t anticipate having to explain things to you, for obvious reasons, but—” He stomps his foot, which is frankly adorable because he’s seventeen and wearing holey sneakers. “I wanted to at least stop dad from kicking you out. And if he tried anyway, I was going to go with you.” 

“What— where?” 

“Anywhere,” Ford says, shaking his head. “Oregon, if you wanted. Alaska, the Pacific Ocean, Stanley, I don’t care.” 

A dull silence follows this, and Stan tries to think of something to say for far too long. Luckily, the perpetual motion machine chooses that exact moment to catch fire. 

* * *

An hour later they’re both singed and exhausted, lying on the school’s football field and staring at the stars. 

“You think it woulda worked?” Stan asks, eventually. 

“I don’t know,” Ford admits. “If I’d gone to West Coast Tech I would have been…” He searches for the right word. “Engaged, certainly. Stimulated. Who knows what would have happened.”

“D’you think you’d have forgotten me?” 

“Not a chance,” Ford says. “I didn’t forget you when we parted, Stanley. It was very difficult to keep you out of my mind.” 

“Enough with the dumb poetics, Ford, would you just talk like a normal person for once?” 

“Fine,” Ford says. “I missed you. Idiot.” 

“Aww.” Stan grins. “I missed you too.”

“Do you think my plan would have worked?” Ford asks, then.

“Oh, absolutely,” Stan says, nodding. “Ford, if you’d dropped all that to come travel with me, I’d have punched myself in the gut a hundred times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.” 

“Well, we don’t have to be quite that drastic.” Ford clears his throat. “It would have been remarkably out of character for me, though.” He sighs. “I was so… focused on my future. So certain there was a legacy I needed to find, a destiny for which I was built.” 

Stan clears his throat. 

“I let other things… take precedence,” Ford amends. “And if I’d stayed here, I would have had to hide the fact that I have decades of self-improvement under my belt now. I’d have had to lie to you for the rest of my life.” 

“Yeesh,” Stan grumbles. “I lied to people for decades, no problem.” 

“Yes, but you’re my brother,” Ford says.

“Fair enough.” 

They look at the moon. It’s nothing too interesting, just a slightly-more-than-half moon hanging out in the sky, giving enough light to see the fence pretty well but not enough to see the grass in much detail. 

“What do we do now?” Stan asks the sky. 

“I’m not sure,” Ford admits. “I suppose we could…” He trails off.

“What?”

“It’s— foolish,” Ford mutters. 

“Duh, it’s you,” Stan says. “Cmon, spill.” 

“I was going to suggest we pick up where we left off,” Ford admits. “In our time,” he adds. 

“What, sailing around the world?” Ford nods. “We were somewhere down in Antigua, Ford, it’d take ages to—” 

“I don’t mean _literally,_ I mean—” Ford clears his throat. “We have time now. Much more time than we thought. We could use it.”

Stan’s quiet. “Yeah,” he says. “We could.” 

“You don’t want to?”

Stan’s quiet again.

“I don’t understand,” Ford says. “This was everything you wanted.”

“When I was a kid, sure,” Stan says, “but— things changed, Ford, I changed. I spent thirty years trying to get you back, but I also spent them living my life. I made some good friends, and I never thought I’d be able to do that. It was like having a home and a family, for the first time since I’d lost you, and—” He stops short as he realizes. “I don’t wanna just leave ‘em behind.” 

“You came here in the first place,” Ford says, “what was your plan, exactly?” 

“I dunno, come here, don’t fuck it up, see how it works out?” 

Ford laughs— and Stan can hear it now. It’s his real laugh, the one Stan knows, from nights swapping stories about their prison breaks, earth-bound or otherwise, the one he hears when they almost get eaten by a sea monster for the third time in a week and they’re too high-strung and exhausted to do anything but laugh it out, the one he hears whenever Mabel calls and drags Dipper’s name through the mud, and then Dipper interrupts to tell them that Mabel had a teaspoon of cooking sherry and thought she was drunk and almost had a panic attack, and Mabel insists that Dipper tried to learn how to swing dance for a week before giving up, and then they can’t hear anything else because they’re all laughing so hard. 

“Oh, Stanley,” Ford sighs, still trying not to giggle. “That’s definitely you in there, no doubt about it.” 

“What, you wanna check my eyes?” Stan pushes Ford and shoves his face close, tugging his eyelids open. “Just to make sure?” 

“Get off me, you buffoon,” Ford laughs, pushing him away.

“Yeah? Make me.”

“I brought a phaser with me, so help me I will use it—”

“Wait, we were allowed to bring stuff? No one told me—” 

_“AHEM,”_ says Time Baby.

They freeze mid-tussle, Stan’s fist in the air and Ford’s hand clamped around his wrist. 

“Time Baby!” Stan rolls off of Ford and stands at attention. 

“What are you doing,” Ford mutters. 

_“THIEF,”_ Time Baby cries, pointing at Stan. _“THIS TIME WISH WAS NOT MEANT FOR YOU.”_

“Figured that out a while ago,” Stan says, “but thanks for lettin’ me know.” 

“Stanley, don’t antagonize him,” Ford says through gritted teeth. 

_“YOUR STOLEN WISH SHALL BE NULLIFIED, VOIDED, AND REVERSED,”_ Time Baby continues.

“Now, hold on a second, you gave that to me fair and square, no take-backsies,” Stan says. 

_“TIME BABY CAN HAVE AS MANY TAKE-BACKSIES AS HE WANTS.”_

“Er, hold on, please,” Ford says politely. “If I— the rightful owner of the Time Wish, so we’re clear— if I agree that his actions align with my own wish, then shouldn’t this fall under my jurisdiction?” 

Time Baby thinks about it. _“FINE,”_ he says at last. _“I GUESS.”_

Forn turns to Stan. “It’s up to you,” he says, holding Stan’s shoulders. “We can stay here and travel the world, just like you want. If I ask, we can stay. We’ll have more time than we could ever hope for, Stanley. We’ll find a boat, we’ll find money somewhere— you’re good at that— and we’ll sail away and never look back. I promise.” 

Six fingertips dig into Stan’s shoulders. There’s wind now somehow, which seems appropriate since this is a big deal, important stuff is happening. Ford’s still talking to him, he realizes. 

“And if you want to go back,” Ford says, “I’ll go with you.”

The wind kicks up, and even though it’s a football field and it’s cut short, it rustles gently in the breeze. 

“I,” Stan says, “Ford, let’s go home.” 

* * *

_“OKAY,”_ Time Baby says, dropping him on the top deck. His everything aches so much and oh god, how had he ever gotten used to this? _“STAY UP HERE.”_

“What— where’s Ford?” Stan asks, looking around. He’s alone on the top deck, it looks like the early morning. 

_“JUST GIVE ME A SECOND,”_ Time Baby says, _"GEEZ. I HAVE TO GIVE HIM THE FIRST WISH TO COMPLETE THE TIMELINE.”_

And he floats down the companionway into the ship, where Ford is ostensibly still asleep. Within a few minutes he hears Time Baby explaining the rules of a Time Wish, hears Ford ask to go back to when he was seventeen, the day before the science fair, and hears the strange _zzzorp_ sound that has to mean he’s gone now. 

And then, a moment later, Ford lands on the deck beside him, rubbing his head. 

“Ow,” Ford mutters. 

“Well,” Stan says, getting to his feet. It takes more time than he remembers. “That was an adventure.” 

“It certainly was,” Ford agrees, standing as well. He’s quicker than Stan. “I don’t believe I’d ever like to do that again.” 

“You said it.” Stan sighs.

They look at the water for a while. Still tied to the dock, the boat barely rocks to and fro with the wind and the waves, mild as they are. The sun slowly rises over the far islands, casting the little town into a gorgeous golden glow. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. 

“Kinda wish I’d just asked him for more time in general,” he says absently, taking his hat off to let the warm tropical breeze sift through his hair. 

“Hm?” 

“I mean, he’s the Time Baby, right?” Stan shrugs. “I dunno what the rules are, but you’d think he could manage something like that.” 

“Huh.” Ford blinks. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was more concerned with making sure you didn’t go to prison.”

“Aw,” Stan coos. “You care.” 

“Yes, yes, moving on,” Ford says stiffly. “In any case, if you want to try again, there’s always Globnar.” 

A swallow soars into view, flitting over the water searching for food. It doubles back, lifts into the air, and then dives down, resurfacing a moment later with a fish caught in its beak. The little silver thing catches the morning light, and the swallow soars away, no doubt returning to feed its family.

Stan puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

“Ford, what the fuck is Globnar.”

**Author's Note:**

> so I was retired from fic but then I suddenly........ had a lot of time on my hands  
> anyway hope u enjoyed


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